Stuart Woods - Dirt

Stone followed instructions, kneeling on a deep sheepskin rug to fan the fire. He tossed his jacket onto the sofa and sat cross-legged on the sheepskin, staring into the crackling flames.

“I love a fire,” Amanda said, setting down a silver tray and joining him on the rug. Having shed her coat, she was wearing a red cashmere jumpsuit that zipped up the front. The tray contained a lobster salad and a loaf of French bread, and they dug into it. When they had finished, Amanda pushed the tray aside and stretched out on the rug, her head in Stone’s lap. Sunlight streamed into the room, bringing out the soft colors in the carefully chosen furnishings. “Mmmm, I feel almost perfect,” she said.

“What would make you feel completely perfect?” Stone asked.

She laughed a low laugh and turned on her side. Gently, she put her mouth on his crotch and softly bit at his penis through his trousers. “That would,” she said. “Why are we wearing all these clothes?”

“I can’t imagine,” Stone replied.

She sat up and began working on his buttons. When she had stripped him of all his clothing, she stood, tugged at the long zipper, and stepped out of her jumpsuit. He was already fully erect, and she knelt on the sheepskin and took him into her mouth.

“If you do that much longer there won’t be anything left,” Stone panted.

She stopped and climbed on top of him. “I’ll be the judge of when there’s nothing left,” she said, taking him inside her. For better than half an hour they lay on the sheepskin, changing positions occasionally, experimenting, until she let out a sharp cry and began her orgasm. Stone rose to meet her, and they came nearly together, noisily, groping and gasping. Finally she fell, panting, beside him on the rug. “What a wonderful first time,” she breathed, stroking his damp penis.

“Wonderful is the word,” Stone agreed.

“Let me tell you how it’s going to be with you and me,” Amanda said.

“All right, tell me.”

“We’re not going to become an item around the city,” she said. “We’re not going to fall in love. We’re going to be friendly, maybe even friends, and we’re going to meet when we feel like it, not out of any sense of mutual obligation, but when we both feel like fucking each other, and when we do, we’re going to do it well. Can you live with that?”

“Oh, it’ll be a struggle, I suppose, but I think I can manage.”

“Not too cold and hard a relationship for you?”

“A fellow needs all sorts of relationships. Why don’t we try it and see how it goes?”

“I’d love that, but you have to understand, I don’t get involved. My life is too complicated for anything beyond sex.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Keep this in mind, too: there isn’t anything you can do to me, excepting violence, that I won’t enjoy, and there’s nothing you could want that I wouldn’t love doing to you. All my life I’ve had a voracious sexual appetite, and I love doing to just as well as being done to. Am I beginning to sound like the perfect woman?”

“Just about.”

She laughed. “I’m not jealous, either; you can fuck whomever you like, and it won’t bother me. But please understand: discretion must be absolute. Nobody knows we’re together or where we are, and that’s the way I want to keep it.”

“Not even Martha?”

“Not even Martha. With this scandal sheet thing happening I must be very, very careful. We can fuck at my apartment or at your house or here, but only when we’re absolutely alone, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

She was kneading his penis, then she swallowed it for a moment and stopped. “Do you particularly like this?” she asked.

“Particularly,” he managed to reply.

She found an orifice with a finger. “And this?”

“Oh, yes.”

She returned to his penis, but did not remove her finger.

Stone found her buttocks with his hand and returned the favor. For the next several minutes they used only lips and fingers until both came again. When they had exhausted their orgasms, Amanda left for a couple of minutes and came back with a basket of hot towels. Slowly, they sponged the sweat and fluids from each other’s body; then they stretched out again onto the sheepskin and relaxed.

“I wish we could stay the night,” Amanda said, “but I have to be back in the city this evening for an important engagement.”

“It’s all right,” Stone replied. “If we stayed the night I might be dead by morning.”

She giggled. “But you’ll be ready again when we’ve dozed for a while, won’t you?” She took a light hold on his penis and squeezed.

“I am entirely in your hands,” Stone breathed.

She laughed. “Easy now; rest for a little while.”

“Amanda, I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” he said.

“My darling, you have no idea, as yet, just how true that is. But you will.”

Somehow, he knew she was right.

Stone was home by dark; he came into the house at dusk, feeling oddly empty inside. Drained might be a better word, he thought, reminding himself of how he had spent the afternoon. He switched on the living room lights and walked to the study, sinking into a leather wing chair.

Stone had always thought of himself as having a large appetite for sex, but he had never before met anyone as voracious as Amanda Dart. He remembered, in a high school science class, seeing a captive black widow spider as it came upon a fly in its web and watching as the spider had sucked the life out of the fly. Now he thought he knew how the fly felt.

He was about to go upstairs when a red light on the telephone beside him began to flash. It was the fax machine in his office, and he wondered who could be faxing him on a Saturday evening. He walked downstairs, switched on the office lights, and went to the machine. It was just spitting out a sheet of paper, and he picked it up.

Oh, God, he thought, what now?

DIRT

Greetings, earthlings! Fabulous dinner party at dear Amanda Dart’s last evening, just fabulous! A roster from the A-list, distinguished one and all. There was Richard A. Hickock, dear Amanda’s publisher, whose nineteen-year-old mistress, one Tiffany Potts (no kidding) was, somehow, not invited. Tiffany resides in nineties splendor in a lovely brownstone apartment not a condom’s throw from Dickie’s own digs on Fifth Avenue, and she is not trotted out on such occasions. Though top-heavy, Tiffany’s tits are her own, not the gift of a quack, and we are reliably informed that they are what keeps Dickie coming back for more. The publisher’s mammary complex is well known-what’s the matter, Dickie, didn’t Mommy do right by you as a baby?

The gorgeous Vance Calder was there, too, sporting one of the lovelies he hopes will keep folks from asking too many questions about his erotic preferences. This one is said to have a brain, too!

Finally, there was the handsome lawyer-cum-gumshoe, Stone Barrington, who Amanda has retained to uncover little old us. Watch out, Stone, even though Amanda has just turned fifty, she’s as horny as ever she was. The former Ida Louise Erenheim, who hails from the downscale side of some small-town Georgia tracks, has bounced from bed to bed for thirty-odd years, improving her station with each hop. She’s discreet, we’ll give her that, but keep your fly zipped, Stone, or dear Amanda will be on you like a bunny rabbit!

Stone’s ears reddened as he read the sheet. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Amanda. Another of those horrible faxes just came in, and I’ve got the number from the Caller ID box attached to my fax machine.”

“Give it to me.” She dictated the number, and Stone wrote it down. “I’ll check it out and get back to you,” he said.